Part 23 (1/2)

'What is your novel about? she enquired of me. Her voice was patronising but I didn't mind that: she was ent.i.tled to it.

The others all waited with her to hear my answer. Incredible, I thought, that nine people in one room weren't carrying on noisy separate conversations, as usually happened.

'It's about survival,' I said politely.

Everyone listened. Everyone always listened to Erica Upton.

'What sort of survival?' she asked. 'Medical? Economic? Creative?'

'It's about some travellers cut off by an earthquake. About how they coped. It's called Long Way Home.'

'How quaint,' she said.

She wasn't intending to be outright offensive, I thought. She seemed merely to know that her own work was on a summit I would never reach, and in that she was right. All the same I felt again the mild recklessness that I had on Touchy: even if I lacked confidence, relax and have a go.

'My agent says,' I said neutrally, 'that Long Way Home is really about the spiritual consequences of deprivation and fear.'

She knew a gauntlet when she heard one. I saw the stiffening in her body and suspected it in her mind.

She said, 'You are too young to write with authority of spiritual consequences. Too young for your soul to have been tempered. Too young to have learned the intensity of understanding that comes only through deep adversity.'

Was that true, I wondered? How old was old enough?

I said, 'Shouldn't contentment be allowed its insights?'

'It has none. Insight grows best on stony ground. Unless you have suffered or are poor or can tap into melancholy, you have defective perception.'

I rolled with that one. Sought for a response.

'I am poor,' I said. 'Well, fairly. Poor enough to perceive that poverty is the enemy of moral strength.'

She peered at me as if measuring a prey for the pounce.

'You are a lightweight person,' she said, 'if you have no conception of the moral strength of redemption and atonement in penury.'

I swallowed. 'I don't seek sainthood. I seek insight through a combination of imagination and common sense.'

'You are not a serious writer.' A dire accusation; her worst.

'I write to entertain,' I said.

'I,' she said simply, 'write to enlighten.'

I could find no possible answer. I said wryly, with a bow, 'I am defeated.'

She laughed with pleasure, her muscles loosening. The lion had devoured the sacrifice and all was well. She turned away to begin talking to Fiona, and Harry made his way to my side, watching me dispatch my champagne with a gulp.

'You didn't do too badly,' he said. 'Nice brisk duel.'

'She ran me through.'